


Seasons of Love: Yule

by levele3



Series: Month of Lofe 2019 [2]
Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Alternate Universe - Human, Arranged Marriage, Blizzards & Snowstorms, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Month of Lofe, Only One Bed, Snowed In
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-06 00:29:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17929316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/levele3/pseuds/levele3
Summary: Strange Magic Month of Lofe 2019 Prompt: Pragma/ Arranged MarriageBog and Marianne were forced into a marriage to help secure a union between their two Clans. The union is only required to last a year but in the dead of winter Bog finds himself falling in love with his wife.





	Seasons of Love: Yule

**Author's Note:**

  * For [JayBird345](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JayBird345/gifts).



> I see that you are also a fan of Lord of the Rings so I hope you enjoy this faux-medieval, arranged marriage, snowed-in, only one bed, human AU

Bog stumbled under the weight of his burden, the snow was already knee-deep, still he trudged on.  

The blizzard had hit hard and fast, the winter winds whipping the snows into a frenzy. Bog and Marianne had become separated from the rest of the hunting party. Bog knew the weather in the highlands was unpredictable, but it was a risk worth taking. Hunt or starve and he’d be damned if he let his people starve. Taking his wife along had been an unnecessary risk. Still she had convinced him to let her come.  

She shivered in his arms, all but unconscious to the world of blinding white around her.  

 _Just a little further_  Bog promised mentally. She was only to be in his care for a year. If anything happened to the woman in his arms, her father would never forgive him. Hell, he wouldn’t forgive himself.  

Bog didn’t even know which direction he was headed, or what shelter he might hope to find.

At last Bog broke through a line of trees. On the other side of which rested a log cabin. The cabin was nestled in a glen, surrounded by forest. The blizzard that raged on behind him didn’t seem to touch the glen. Here only a light snow fell. Bog wanted to sink to his knees in joy. A thin trail of smoke slithered from the chimney. Perhaps someone would be at home and grant them entrance.

Rejuvenated by the site of shelter Bog shifted his wife’s weight and headed for the cabin.

The door opened with ease and Bog sighed in relief as the interior presented itself.  

The cabin was all one room, lit by the glow of the waning fire. An assortment of flowers and herbs hung drying in the low rafters, giving the cabin a nice smell, along with the pine it was made from. A fresh straw pallet lay on the floor near enough the open fire place to catch the heat, but not so close as to catch fire. A pile of furs sat folded next to the pallet.  The owner didn’t appear to be home. Bog would explain the situation should they return.

As quickly as his numb fingers would let him Bog took off his boots and pack. In his pack he found a clean and mostly dry shift. He stripped himself of the rest of his kit and put on just the shift. The rest of his clothes he laid by the fire. Now for the hard part.

Marianne needed to get out of her wet clothes too, but Bog had never undressed his wife before. In fact, he had never seen her, or any other woman, naked before in all his thirty winters. He had laid her close to the fire, still shivers wracked her petite frame.    

Bog breathed on his hands and rubbed them together. He wished there was some other way.  He prayed to the gods that his wife would forgive him.

Gentle as his rough hands could be Bog undressed his wife for the first time since they had been joined in a hand-fasting ceremony on Lammas. He did his best not to disrespect her modesty as he peeled back the layers of wet fabric that shrouded her. He found a second dry shift and slipped it over her before arranging the furs on the pallet. He tucked Marianne into their borrowed bed before going to the wood pile to grab fuel for the fire.  

Bog watched as the embers grew into an inferno. When he was satisfied, he went to the pallet and crawled under the furs to warm his wife. He simply held her in his arms sharing his body heat with her. Their situation was only meant to be temporary. Married for a year, it was part of the deal he’d made with her father. It had been a bad year for crops for Bog but when he had met with Dagda the other man seemed to have an abundance. They had traded many things, food, horses, and men. Marianne, Dagda’s eldest and presumed heir had watched over the deals being made very carefully.  

She had a fiery spirt, anyone could see. On his first day at the encampment she had accidentally challenged him to a duel not knowing who he was. At the time she had been dressed in armor and appeared to Bog as a man, he had been so shocked he had engaged her in the requested duel. It hadn’t lasted long. Marianne had tripped, falling backwards and knocking her too-big helmet off, exposing her face.

Bog had offered her his hand, but she had refused, pushing herself to her feet and stomping away. When Bog was brought to Dagda’s tent later in the day both had been surprised to find the other there. Marianne had refused to look at him, and a steady blush had coloured her cheeks.  

After almost a month on negotiations, just when Bog thought all the details had been sorted, someone, probably his mother, thought a marriage was needed to solidify the agreement. Just for a year. A simple contract. A show of good faith. The conception of a bairn was not part of the deal and so Bog had seen no need to request such a thing of Marianne.

When the Summer camp was disbanded and the two clans went separate ways, Dagda’s back to the south and Bog’s further north, Marianne had gone with Bog as had been arranged. They had shared a bed in the castle in such they both slept in it, but that was as far as things had gone.

Now, on this cursed mid-winter night Bog lay as close to his wife as he ever had. At some point in the months that had passed he had fallen in love with her. He scoffed even as tears threatened his eyes. He had fallen in love with his wife, he couldn’t lose her. Not this night, not ever.  

“Marianne, mah love,  _please_ ,” he whispered to her ear.  

He couldn’t stand the heartbreak her death would bring. He had only just learned to love again.  

***

Marianne woke from a pleasant dream in unfamiliar surroundings. At first, she was puzzled by the absence of the stone walls, but then she remembered begging Bog to bring her along on the hunting party. Marianne lay alone in a nest of furs next to a steadily burning hearth. An iron pot hung over the flames. The rest of the cabin was empty.

“Bog!” she shouted at last, or tired to, her voice was a dry rasp.  

Her heart pounded in fear. Where was Bog? Where was her husband? The rest of the hunting party? She tried to push herself up, but her arms and legs were too weak.

 Just then Bog came in the door of the cabin, stooping so as not to bang his head on the exposed beams, an armload of wood cradled to his chest.

She watched in silence as Bog stacked the logs near the hearth and check on the contents of the pot.

It was then Marianne released she was wearing not but a shift and all her other clothes hug by the fire, drying.  

“Oh good, yer awake,” Bog said, smiling at her.

Marianne blushed in the fire’s glow. Her husband had seen her naked body. She was torn between wanting to punch him for it or give him a very enthusiastic thank-you for probably saving her life.  

“Here, have some o this,” Bog offered Marianne a spoonful of the melted snow from the pot, which she gratefully sipped.  

By midday Bog knew they had to get moving, the storm had stopped and with any luck they would make it back to his castle by nightfall.  

As they crested the top of hill Bog took one last look back at the cabin and a shiver raced up his spine. Something wonderful had happened there, some  _strange magic_ , a miracle to be sure. He had spent all night holding his wife close, praying to any-and-everything that she would be spared. Bog had a feeling he’d never be able to find this place again if he looked for a hundred years. It belonged to the Fair Folk, no doubt about that.  

“Are you coming?” Marianne called to him, impatient as ever.

Bog rolled his eyes fondly and huffed out an, “aye.”  

The woman he loved was alive and well.  He wondered if perhaps someday she might grow to love him too.


End file.
